


leather and metal

by sinfulchihuahua0602



Category: DreamWorks Dragons (Cartoon), How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Referenced Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27572281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfulchihuahua0602/pseuds/sinfulchihuahua0602
Summary: One year after Hiccup’s rescue and victory over Dagur and Viggo, he wakes up panicking.Infernal Fascination one-shot.
Relationships: Dagur the Deranged/Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	leather and metal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evilwriter37](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilwriter37/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Infernal Fascination](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7636351) by [evilwriter37](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilwriter37/pseuds/evilwriter37). 



> credit to evilwriter37 for such an amazing story.

Hiccup wakes up panicking. 

His legs are tangled in the blankets, phantom warmth pressed up against him of muscle and red hair and a scruffy beard scratching his neck as kisses are pressed against it. “ _ Dagur,”  _ he breathes, and he responds with  _ whore,  _ echoing in his head. Heat flares through Hiccup’s body, like a year before, like what Dagur made him into. 

He pulls his right leg up to himself, feeling at the warm skin there and the short pants. No cuff. There is no cuff, and this bed has no furs on it, and there are solid walls around him. There are only blankets on the bed - expensive and hard to find, but Hiccup had woken up too many times panicking in furs to keep going like that. 

Hiccup’s hand goes to his chest - bare, it’s summer and he decided to sleep shirtless, he didn’t want Dagur to ruin that for him too, but now-

Not enough. It’s not enough, he can’t be vulnerable like this-

Warmth blooms at his touch and he jerks his hand away, frantically throwing the bedsheets off.  _ My Hiccup  _ echoes in his head, in Dagur’s voice, and his breath comes too fast, his whole body feels like it’s on fire. He stumbles over to the chest with his clothes in it - he sleeps with his prosthetic on now, still not trusting the memories to stay away if he takes it off, and for the sense of safety it brings. 

_ My Hiccup. Whore. Slut.  _

He pulls out his armor, stripping as quickly as possible in the darkness of the hut, lit only by moonlight, but he knows his armor by heart. Shirt first, and pants, and then the other pieces - chestpiece, shoulder pads. He’s improved his armor since he was rescued, adding layer after layer. 

He pulls on the chestpiece and his fingers brush over the high collar, dipping beneath it to feel at the smooth skin there. No kisses, no bites, no nips. 

The second layer to the chestpiece, the one that allows him to put his map beneath it. There’s a strap there, right over his heart, with the crest of Berk on it. He pauses, putting his fingers over it. There’s no brand there, his clothes don’t chafe against the raised edges of a shaped scar, curled in the form of a Skrill. He’s  _ free,  _ why can’t he remember that?

_ Because you know you aren’t.  _

Hiccup closes his eyes, but all he sees is red hair and a manic grin, so he opens them and gives a low, frustrated growl. He pulls out more of his armor - shoulder pads, belts, his sword, his boot. Shoulder pads on his shoulders, and he thumbs over the raised design on one of them. His belts wrap around his waist and hips - hard to grab. No one wants to hold hips with metal wrapped around them. 

_ You held Dagur’s.  _

His sword gets strapped to his right thigh, over the scarred mess of what used to be Dagur’s initials. He puts his hand on the hilt, closes his eyes, and this time he sees Dagur in flames, sees red hair burning as bright as its color and a manic grin twisted into a scream. 

He smiles, just for a moment, and opens his eyes. 

The boot is last, its weight designed to be light as possible. The ankle cuff was heavy, restricting, but Hiccup moves his foot around in the boot and there aren’t any sharp edges to cut him, there’s no heavy weight and he paces across the room. There’s no chain, either. 

He goes back to the wall, sitting down against it and putting his hand over the crest of Berk on his heart. He knows every curve of this by heart, traces his fingers over it, leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. 

He’s free. He’s free. 

He opens his eyes after a long moment, turning and pulling out the last piece to his armor - a mask. Black, covering over his hair and his face, leaving only his eyes free. The hair part had been to keep it on, but Hiccup can’t help but think of it as making it impossible for anyone -  _ him - _ to touch his hair. 

He puts it on, pulling the front piece down over his face. No one can see his face. He doesn’t have to make eye contact, they can’t compliment his features. His armor is as complex as possible, with layer after layer, with no skin showing except his face - they can compliment his armor, but not him. Not him. 

He pulls the mask off after a few seconds, breath hot in it, and then sets it aside. He runs a hand through to ruffle his momentarily flattened hair -  _ tugging, pulling his head to where Dagur wants it to go  _ \- and then takes it out. He leans his head back against the wall, still tracing the crest of Berk over his heart, and starts going through what he is. 

He belongs to Berk, and Berk lets him be free. He’s the chief’s son, the heir of Berk, the leader of the Dragon Riders. He rides a Night Fury, he was the first one to  _ tame _ a Night Fury. He killed the Red Death. 

He killed Dagur. 

_ I killed Dagur.  _

His thumb presses into the red design on the strap.  _ Dagur is gone. I killed him.  _

Rough lips press against his, an arm goes possessively around his waist. 

_ I pull the dagger out of his belt and stab him with it.  _

Blood runs over his hands, over the blade. Dagur looks up at him with betrayal. “Hiccup?”

_ I am not yours.  _

Hiccup’s breathing slows, hand stilling on the crest and simply resting over it.  _ Not his. Not his. Not his.  _

He leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, and repeats it all the way until sleep drags him back down. 


End file.
